Banished
by gopadfoot
Summary: The events of Sherrinford had a great impact on Mycroft. His superiors were greatly unhappy, and he is to be punished in the same way his younger brother once was.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I just had this thought for an angsty little one-shot. I might do something more with it one day... but for now, it stands alone.

* * *

Once again, the two Holmes brothers were standing on the tarmac, waiting for the plane that would swallow one of them on its maws, taking him on a mission far from home. Once again, the return of the exiled was far from assured.

This time, however, no one else came to bid the exiled one farewell. He had been forbidden from making further contact with his work associates. He had never engaged in friendships; in fact, he derided the concept. Why should one engage in sentimental attachments, if all hearts would be broken in the end? Nor had he invested himself in a romantic relationship; all lives end, and one of them was sure to be left broken and alone.

His family? Family is complicated, as his brother claimed. His parents claimed to love him, yet his relationship with them was never smooth. At the moment, it was more strained than ever before. While trying to be kind, he had betrayed them, deceived them. They had left him in fury, and he had not yet heard a single word from them.

Yet his brother was there. And wasn't that a wonder; the one who had always most despised him, was standing there like a rock, strong and solid, not budging from his side.

"You'll need to behave yourself for now," he told his little brother. "I won't be able to grant you any favors, should you find yourself in a pickle."

"I don't need your help," came the aggrieved response, almost on the automatic.

"I truly hope you will not," he answered in his most condescending tone, belying the worry he felt. He hoped that his little brother would prove his own words true. The most terrifying act of his banishment was his powerlessness in watching over his baby brother, as he had done for the past forty years.

"This can't be right," Little Brother murmured, his tone as bewildered and hurt the hundredth time he said it as the first. "They can't just send you away. You're the British Government, for goodness sake! England will fall, I just know it."

"England has, for centuries, managed just fine without me," Big Brother answered nonchalantly, as he had ninety-nine times before.

"Mr. Holmes," came the voice of the pilot. "You may board the plane now."

"Mycroft," Little Brother grasped his sleeve. "Come back. Soon." His voice sounded as scared as it had that day he had pretended to jump off a roof.

He didn't answer. There was no promise he could make that he truly believed in. He didn't want to leave his brother with another lie to blame on him.

He merely held out his hand, in the formal style signaling a handshake. To his astonishment, and a bit of horror, Little Brother ignored it, and instead threw his arms around him. Big Brother tentatively patted his back.

"I believe in you," the exiled one murmured to the younger man."You'll do fine."

The younger one disengaged from the embrace, and looked his brother in the eye. "And I believe in you. You will find a way to come back. You only need to remember that I'll be waiting for you."

"It might take a while," he answered, his voice strained by the effort of containing his emotions.

"I'll still be waiting. For as long as it takes."

With those parting words, the brothers were separated, one to fly away to an unknown destiny, and another to go brave a new life without his Guardian Angel constantly watching over him.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock, could you contact Mycroft for us?" Mummy asked her younger son, several weeks after Mycroft had left. "Dad and I are still very upset, but he's still our son, and we want him to be there when we visit Sherrinford."

Sherlock was at a loss. There was no way he was telling his parents what really happened to their son. "Mycroft... is abroad on a diplomatic trip. It will take quite a while, as I understand."

"We would wait another week or two. I think it's important for him to act as part of the family. After all, he did keep us apart for way too long," Mummy said, bitterness creeping into her voice.

"It will take much longer," Sherlock replied.

"So let him come back for a couple of days. Family is important," she insisted.

"He won't come," Sherlock replied, feeling his head starting to ache. Mummy murmured something that sounded like "idiot boy" and changed the conversation.

To Sherlock's frustration, John picked that day to bring up the topic of Sherrinford. Mycroft had used the vestiges of his influence to insure that Sherlock and their parents would have limited access to Eurus. Sherlock had told John about his progress with Eurus, and the planned trip with his parents.

"Honestly, I'd like to come too, one day," John said, softly. "To see you playing. I thought it would give me, we'll, closure."

"Oh," Sherlock said, sympathetically.

"You can ask Mycroft to arrange it," John suggested.

"I don't know. I mean, security is very tight there right now..." Sherlock said hesitantly.

"Yeah, but your brother is the British Government. I would think he owes us both something, no?"

"We'll see," Sherlock said noncomittally.

"If he doesn't cooperate, perhaps we can teach him another little lesson?" John suggested, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Remember how well the last one worked? Oh, I've got a great idea! Let's have your homeless network queue up in front of the flat, and force him to come wait, but we'll have them sneak in again and again, so he'll be waiting for hours..."

"No," Sherlock said shortly.

"Alright. How about we have some people waiting in front of his office and giving-"

"No!" said Sherlock, more forcefully this time.

"Okay, okay, no need to get worked up," John said. He cocked his head thoughtfully. "What's up with you today?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock brushed him off, and began plucking at his violin.

Five minutes later, Mrs. Hudson brought up tea. "Sherlock, dear, I've been meaning to ask you," the old lady turned to him. "I keep on trying to reach your brother for the reimbursement he promised me for the renovations."

"Won't insurance take care of it?" the detective asked impatiently.

"Oh, no, I can't quite tell them we've had a grenade going off, can I?" she laughed.

"I'll take care of it, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said firmly.

"Oh, no, that's not your responsibility, you poor boy," the landlady said sympathetically. "If your brother had even an ounce of humanity in him, he would hurry to make good on all the damage he caused. He doesn't even bother coming over to see how you are-"

"SHUT UP, MRS. HUDSON!" The younger man roared.

The landlady exchanged startled glances with the doctor. They then turned to gaze at Sherlock with concern. "Something's off with you today, Sherlock, and you better tell us what it is," John said firmly.

"Stop talking about that- that blown-up waddling idiot. I don't want to hear about him, is that understood? I want to punch the lights out of him! I despise him! What kind of brother just picks himself up and- it really doesn't matter." The detective's fists were tightly clenched and his face was white.

"A rubbish big brother, that's who," John said lightly, trying to calm his friend down.

Sherlock got up and locked himself into his room. He frantically dug up his secret stash and stared at it, breathing heavily. "You won't even see," he mumbled. "You won't even come," he whispered, his voice breaking.

Slowly, he put the needle down and got up. He reached for the violin and made it wail and cry along with his heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** A piece from Mycroft's POV. I'm not sure where I'm going with this, so I can't tell you what will come next. Also, I appreciate all the reviews, especially as reviews for my other works lately have been down or non-existent (hint, hint). I love to hear from you!

* * *

Life wasn't easy for the ex-British Government-turned-MI6 agent. And it wasn't all due to the legwork.

Goldfish or not, Mycroft was used to being surrounded by people for a large part of his days. He didn't do friendships per se; he wouldn't indulge in relationships purely for sentimental reasons. He did, however, interact with others in a professional capacity, and was not used to being completely alone.

He wasn't Sherlock. He had a much better grasp of human nature, and to an extent cared about how others regarded him. His expertise was in diplomacy and politics, not fieldwork. He missed his meetings, his work associates, his staff. He missed the give-and-take of his political wheeling and dealings. He even missed the mindless chatter of his staff that he oh-so-patiently pretended to listen to.

Most of a all, he missed a certain curly-haired young man. He missed the constant stream of trouble the young man stirred up, and the snarky, biting comments he made sure to throw his way. He even missed the occasional little thefts of his posessions, where he would swear and then yell at Sherlock and his little brother would laugh in his face, and then Mycroft would roll his eyes, and when nobody saw, he would chuckle at his irrepressible, incorrigible brother.

To ease the loneliness, Mycroft continuously communicated with his little brother. Communication was perhaps not the correct word, as there was only one party truly involved. The exiled agent communicated with the imaginary Sherlock who resided in his Mind Globe (of course Mycroft had a Mind Globe, not a silly little Palace. Different countries represented different ideas or people. Great Britain was the heart of it, and there was only one person who was significant enough to occupy it.)

"I'm not as fast as you, Sherlock," Mycroft told Mind Sherlock, one day after he had barely managed to escape his pursuers, when his cover had been blown. "My acting skills may be even better than yours, but that doesn't help me much in such situations. It took me forty- five minutes to escape, and I'm winded. You would have just climbed up a tree. Or jumped over a ten-foot wall." Mycroft chuckled at the images his mind procured.

"You need to lose a stone or two if you ever want to be able to move properly," Mind Sherlock snarked. "Oh, by the way, how's the diet?"

Once, after three days of doing nothing but stealth watching a suspect, Mycroft asked his brother, "Was it like this for you too, for the two years you were away? Were you as tired, as weary, as lonely as me?"

Imaginary Sherlock opened his eyes wide. "Of course, brother mine. You know that, after all is said and done, I need human companionship from time to time. Genius needs an audience, after all."

"But you need more than that, don't you? You need companionship. You were always the emotional one."

"And you aren't as inhuman as you'd like to pretend, Big Brother," Sherlock told him seriously.

"Do you still miss me, Sherlock? Or have you had all your needs satisfied by others, now? You have so many who care for you now. Dr. Watson, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Miss Hooper, Mummy and Dad, even Eurus loves you. Do you still need your big brother on your life?" Things that Mycroft would never voice to his real brother came easily to the imaginary one.

"I asked you to come back, didn't I?" Sherlock answered, sounding very young and vulnerable.

Mycroft was getting deeper and deeper into his mission, which was estimated to last about ten months. The farther he got, the more complicated things became, and the greater the danger he faced. He was now spending most of his time in hiding, while secretly communicating with his few undercover contacts.

"My diet is going very well, brother mine," he said. "I'm living off a supply of crackers and cheese, and some nutrient bars. I'm thinner than ever, but I'm still not as fast as you. I just don't have your flexibility."

"Have you ever tried exercise?" Mind Sherlock teased. "You know, moving. Legwork. Even when you aren't fat, you're still lazy."

"Sherlock, things are getting harder for me," Mycroft said earnestly, a forlorn note creeping into his words. "I'm starting to lose my drive. Is it worth for me to finish and come back? I don't know what's waiting for me when I do."

"What do you mean? I'm waiting," Sherlock said in confusion.

"You better be. You're the only one who keeps me going. Mummy and Dad were so mad at me, I wouldn't be surprised if they disowned me. The British Government betrayed me-"

"But I thought _you're_ the British Government," imaginary Sherlock interrupted.

"By now, you should have let go of your childish fantasies, Sherlock. I'm not omnipotent. Back to before, Dr. Watson and your landlady, with whom I used to have a sort of kinship, hate me now. I don't know about Lestrade, but he probably pities me after seeing me in the state I was in that night, and I can stand that less than hatred. You are all I have, Sherlock, and I'm not even sure I have that."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** : My sympathies and my prayers go to all the victims of terror. I hope no offense is taken if the subject is mentioned here.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was leading a very busy life. His consulting practice was picking up speed, and John was working with him almost full time, eschewing his job in the surgery for the more exciting prospect of solving cases. Sherlock was grateful.

The detective's visits to his sister continued on a weekly basis, and this sessions, plus the traveling, took a large chunk of his time and energy, as well as an emotional toll he would never admit to. His sister wasn't a case, to be analyzed, solved, and then written up in John's blog. She was family; their complicated history and her broken psyche didn't, couldn't, change that.

Speaking of family, Sherlock found dealing with his parents exhausting. They were relying on him in a way they never had before. He realized that, in a way, he was doing the job that Mycroft had done all these years, of keeping the family together. It was shocking, and unsettling, to realize that his parents were not as strong as he imagined. They grieved over their lost daughter with an intensity he hadn't thought possible. Ironically, that gave him a glimmer of understanding into Mycroft's choices. He had seen the human frailties of the elder Holmes's, and had wished to protect them from their own emotions.

His workload kept him distracted enough not to turn to his mind-numbing vices, and he was grateful for that. Yet he realized that he was in a delicate equilibrium, and the slightest upset would send him spiraling down. He didn't want any extra time to think, to have the same thought running through his head, eating at his soul. _Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft..._ After just a few minutes of that, he would go berserk.

So he anxiously looked for distractions, loaded his schedule with cases (even if some were below eight), and acted like a good brother and soon. Until he got an unexpected visitor one day.

"Mr. Holmes," she greeted him, and he immediately felt faint upon seeing her. Realizing what he thought her visit implied, she hurried to reassure him. "Your brother is alright, as far as we know. I'm bringing positive news, actually. I'd like to discuss it with you somewhere more...secure."

"I'll make this place secure then, Anthea," he replied with determination. "Please call me Sherlock, I don't wish to be equated with Mycroft," he smirked slightly. Sherlock asked Mrs. Hudson not to let anyone in and locked the door. Then he swept the room for bugs ( which he did daily, but an extra time didn't hurt) and put a noisemakers by the door for good measure. Then he turned to the young woman with a single command: "Speak."

She spoke. Apparently, the order to banish Mycroft was a very controversial one, involving a power play between two factions in the government. One faction had sought to make Mycroft the scapegoat, not only for the events at Sherrinford, but for various other issues. They felt that making him take the blame would remove it from their own shoulders, and in addition give each them more control over issues where the elder Holmes's had maintained control.

The other faction had fought for Mycroft, acknowledging not only his his innocence in most of what he was being blamed for, but also his incredible worth and contributions to the government. Unfortunately, the former side had, through a combination of raw power pushing and underhanded tactics, managed to get their way.

"What changed now?" Sherlock asked, looking at her keenly.

"Something that I was expecting, and I admit to hoping too, to happen. Things are starting to go wrong."

"Which things?"

"More like everything," Anthea answered, a hint of smugness in her tone. "Some of is small. Little changes in the economy, some numbers that are going down, some unfavorable results. All of it in areas where Mycroft Holmes had usually been consulted. Then there's the diplomatic side, where there's been a bigger impact. Actually, one disaster after another. We've had foreign entourages insisting on only meeting with Mr. Holmes, and getting pretty pissed off when others were sent. There have been some pretty major diplomatic blunders, too, in the absence of your brother's advice and mediating."

Sherlock sat silently, mulling over the information. "I see how that could be advantageous for Mycroft. However, I'm not quite sure it's enough, if there's indeed such powerful opposition," he said.

"There's more," Anthea said, suddenly somber. "The latest wave of terror, those should never have happened. At least some of the attacks could have been prevented, had Mr. Holmes been allowed to do his job." Sherlock noticed some wetness in the corner of her eyes, and bowed his head.

After a moment, he lifted his head and asked quietly, "Do you have the proof to back up your words?"

"I do," she said, and there was a spark of mischief in her eyes. "My job restricts me from going over some heads, but that's not the case for you. Sherlock Holmes, you are the one who will lead this mission. We will bring your brother home."


	5. Chapter 5

It wasn't cold in Kiev. It was glacial. English winters were toasty warm in comparison, Mycroft mused. It was bitter, biting, raw. No, he was warm. Hot, burning. No, freezing. Again. Where was that blanket? Winter. English winters... England. Queen and country. Sherlock. Anthea. Lady Smallwood, or was it Alicia? He had a hard time thinking clearly. Eurus, Sherrinford. Was it secure? Was she secure? Was Eurus alright?

Mummy. Mummy was angry. Idiot boy. He was an idiot boy. Dad was angry too. Where is our daughter? What have you done with our daughter? He did his best. Sherlock. Sherlock said he did his best. Sherlock was being kind. To him. To Mycroft, the brother he despised. Sherlock? Where... safe? Sherlock! Hurt? Drugs? Dr. Watson. Save him, Dr. Watson. Can't. Look out for him... Sherlock. I'm sorry, Sherlock. You don't deserve me. You deserve better... better brother. Big brother. Good brother. Not lie to you, hurt you, mock you... I'm sorry. Sherlock.

Mycroft pulled the skimpy blanket tighter around him, his hands trembling as he did so. He should get up. There was a meeting... he was meeting? Someone. Spy. Infiltration. Information. Tired... Sleep. Only sleep. Alright, Sherlock? Just a little sleep. I'll come home soon.

* * *

"Sherlock? What in the world are you _wearing_?"

"This, my dear Dr. Watson, is called a necktie, or alternately a tie. Some people like to put it around their necks, believing it gives them an air of being important and professional-"

"Very funny. I didn't think you believed in ties."

"I don't. But needs must."

"Needs?"

"I'm meeting someone. I believe she would be more amenable to me if I'm dressed formally."

"Oh, Sherlock, don't tell me you have a _date,_ " the doctor teased.

"I don't know if I would call it that. I'm just meeting her for tea."

Seeing that Sherlock seemed serious, John's jaw dropped. "Seriously, Sherlock, I hope this isn't one of your tricks, like with Janine. I thought you knew better than that by now. What's her name, by the way?"

"Elizabeth."

"Are you truly dating her, or are you just meeting her for a case? Who is she, anyhow?" John was thoroughly confused.

"Don't be ridiculous. She's married, and it would cause quite a scandal if I did."

"OK. So, a case. Is that why you called me over?"

"Obviously. The helicopter should be here in half an hour. You are wearing formal like I told you, but you can still spruce up a bit."

"Where are we going with the helicoper?"

"Keep up, John. We're going to Buckingham Palace to meet the Queen. Wasn't that obvious?"

* * *

In the next half hour, Sherlock filled his freind in on their mission. The poor doctor was flabbergasted.

"You mean, Mycroft wasn't just avoiding you? He actually isn't here?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock sighed impatiently. "I just told you that."

"So that's why he wasn't returning Mrs. Hudson's phone calls? And that's why you didn't call him when we needed more information on the Flanagan case? And that's why you got upset whenever we mentioned him? Oh, and that must be why we never see him around anymore." The doctor suddenly was able to connect all the odd little dots, which formed a disturbing picture.

"Brilliant deduction, John," Sherlock was oozing sarcasm. "Now let me fill you in on your part. You will be there mainly as a prop piece, the wounded war hero and ex-army doctor, who has assisted the government on numerous occasions. It will give us a more... respectable appearance."

"Why, would your appearance not be enough? You look pretty respectable now," John retorted, slightly insulted at the way Sherlock referred to his role.

"Unfortunately, Her Majesty has heard of some of my, escapades. Showing up at her residence in a sheet didn't improve my credibility, for some reason."

"Imagine that," John snarked. "But, seriously, Sherlock, how are you holding up?"

"I don't know what you mean," the detective furrowed his brows.

"Don't play dumb. Your brother was demoted, stripped of his powers, and sent on a dangerous mission. You can't even contact him. I know that it must be eating at you."

"Don't be ridiculous. I need to return a few favors, and this is the best way to do it. There's nothing worse than being in Mycroft's debt. He got himself into this. What was it you said, 'What goes around, comes around?' Mycroft is getting a taste of his own medicine, being sent on the kind of mission he was ready to send me on. So, no, I'm not crying my cries out for my _dear_ big brother."

The doctor observed his friend keenly. "I don't know whether you're trying to lie to me or to yourself, but either way, it isn't working."

Sherlock didn't respond.


	6. Chapter 6

The exiled civil servant woke in the morning, still cold, still burning, but somewhat more lucid. His chest was aching something fierce, and he struggled to take a breath. All he got for his efforts was a hacking cough. _Pneumonia. This is indeed a bit of a bother,_ he thought. _Probably need intravenous antibiotics. I don't suppose I could just walk into the local A &E? Bully for_ _that._ Mycroft coughed again, and took a moment to slurp in some oxygen. _I should try to get in touch with my handler. Only, for some reason, I don't think I can trust him anymore._

Mycroft's illness was no fluke. He had experienced what seemed like a string of bad luck, with his identity being exposed more than once, information and supplies being mysteriously delayed, and his inside contacts showing up very late, or not at all.

Two days ago, he had been stuck waiting for an informant in frigid weather for hours. In desperation, he had contacted his handler, who had reassured him that the man was on his way. Ever the dutiful government employee, he had waited, until the informant showed up, full of insincere apologies and empty excuses. Mycroft had given him a piece of his mind, but could do no more than that. He was merely a pawn in this game.

All that relaxation in the fresh air turned out not to be so good for his health, Mycroft thought cynically. His brilliant mind was running through his options. He could stay as he was. Was there still any point in fighting? People wanted him dead, that much was obvious. No one would come and kill him directly, that would be too messy. Of course, if he was captured by enemy forces, or was done in by illness, that would be an unfortunate happening, but a natural consequence of the mission. Nobody would be blamed, and everybody would be happy.

"Wrong."

"Not you again, Sherlock. I wasn't talking to you."

"Yes, you were, or I wouldn't be here. I'm in your head, stupid."

"Alright, alright, what to you want?"

"I said you're wrong. _I_ won't be happy. I asked you to come back. I said that I would be waiting. I still believe in you, you know. I would be very disappointed in you if you show me up like that. It would prove me wrong, and you know how I hate when you do that."

Mycroft chuckled to himself. "Of course you do. But I'm not sure. Sherlock, I'm tired. I'm I'll, and exhausted, and trying to fulfill a pointless mission whose only purpose is to get me out of the way. I'm freezing, and I can't breathe. I don't know if I can still fight."

"Mycroft. MYCROFT! Come back. COME BACK! YOU PROMISED!" The British Government was drifting off again when he heard the voice, still inside his mind, and turned around on the grassy field he found himself on. A little boy with curly hair was running after him, tears streaming down his pale cheeks. "You said you will always be there for me! You're a liar! You're leaving me! Mycroft! Please, please come back!"

Mycroft's frozen body was suddenly consumed by a blazing hot fire of determination. "I'm coming back, Sherlock. Just hold on a little while longer. I'm coming back. For you."

The banished man forced himself to think. His best option, and probably only one, was to escape the web of intrigue forming around him. Mycroft Holmes would have to disappear.

* * *

Sherlock greeted Her Royal Highness with an incline of his head, and lightly touched the Queen's outstretched hand. John outdid himself with his soldier role, saluting, standing at attention, and introducing himself as a former Army Captain of the RAMC.

HRH smiled lightly and told him that it was always a pleasure to meet a soldier who risked his life to defend the country. She bade them to sit, and refreshments were brought in.

Sherlock waited respectfully for the queen to speak up first. Gone was the childish detective who showed up at the Palace in a sheet and stole an ashtray, on a whim. The stakes were too high, this time.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It is a privilege to meet the man who saved our country from a terrorist plot, with the help of Dr. Watson, of course. I have been informed that the both of you have assisted our police forces and various government agencies on various occasions. Please state your reason for requesting an audience, and I shall do my best to be of assistance."

"Thank you, Madam," Sherlock replied. "I come on behalf of my brother, Mycroft Holmes."

"Indeed? Mr. Holmes is a dear friend of mine and my family," the Queen said pleasantly. "Has he sent you on his behalf?"

"Unfortunately, he was unable to. My brother isn't in the country at the moment. He has been sent on a mission, about two months ago, and hasn't been in contact."

"A mission?" the monarch frowned delicately. "I have been led to believe that Mr. Holmes doesn't usually involves himself in fieldwork. His service to our country is invaluable, and I have believed that would supersede any mission abroad. Howe've, if your brother has seen fit to take this task upon himself, I trust he has his reasons."

"Madam, your trust in my brother's capabilities is heartening. Let us outline his situation, and show you the relevant documents. Your opinion on this matter is highly valued."

The detective talked, taking care not to be so in delicate as to point fingers, but making it quite clear that Mycroft hadn't gone of his own free will. He also confirmed that there was an abundance of agents who could have been sent in his brother's stead.

Then he produced the data showing how the interests of the country were in decline. There were very few parts of the British Government that _weren't_ affected, if even slightly.

The Queen was unhappy, that much was clear, despite her maintained composure. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention," she told the duo. "Now, as you are surely aware, our position in politics is always neutral. Our purpose is to unite the country, not to divide it."

Sherlock nodded respectfully. He was well aware of that. "All we request of you, Madam, is your assurance that you will vouch for my brother's integrity. There are some out there who seek to malign him, and having your support will help things turn in his favor."

HRH remained silent for several moments, deep in thought. Then she nodded regally. "You have my assurance. Very few have the integrity and strength of character that Mycroft Holmes possesses, and even fewer have done so much for our country and our subjects. I will assist you in any way I can. Please do keep me updated."

The duo said their respectful farewells, and left the palace with more hope in their hearts than they had gone in with.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft's first step was finding a hospital. There was no chance of him expiring in such a plebeian manner as death by pneumonia. Not if he could help it.

Mycroft contacted his handler, and weakly requested medical help. There was no point in hiding his illness, not when they were watching him so closely. He got instructions to wait for a car, which would take him to a secret MI6 base. Then Mycroft got himself admitted into a private hospital in Kiev- on paper, using one of his government-issued identities. He then did the same for two other hospitals, using different identities each time. His strength quickly waning, he dragged himself by train to a small Ukrainian village twenty miles from the capital city, where he checked himself into the local clinic and let himself be treated.

The identity card he used was one he had privately arranged before he left on his mission. He knew enough about double-crossing to worry about an escape plan. Nevertheless, he had dearly hoped it wouldn't come to that. Ditching an official mission was comparable to treason, and left him with the status of a fugitive. Who would have thought that, he mused wryly. Mycroft Holmes, British Government Extraordinaire, would become a a wanted man, fleeing from British Justice. Sherlock would be laughing his head off.

Sergiy Dzubenko was a lower-middle class Ukrainian shop owner, who blended in perfectly with the scenery. Mycroft's gift with languages and mimicry served him well at playing Sergiy. Nevertheless, he knew his time was running out. He had bought several days with his ruse, but they would find him in the end.

After two days on antibiotics, Mycroft was definitely feeling better, although not put of the woods yet. He carefully arranged his next stage of the plan. Breaking into the records, and hacking into the government systems was a breeze. Evidence was planted about the unfortunate death of one Sergiy Dzubenko, who died of advanced pneumonia, and had no family to come claim him. Some hefty bribes to one of the doctors and a morgue attendant, and his cover story was complete. Faking death was becoming more cliché by the day, and less believable too. Yet it would provide misdirection, and necessitate an investigation that would take up valuable resources.

After stealing as much medication and supplies from the clinic as he could carry, it was time for the banished man to move on.

Mycroft took a scenic route to his next destination. A plane to Holland, a train to France, a cab to Belgium, and another plane to Spain. Miguel Eduardo was a middle-class sales man, who worked for a company that sold office supplies. He had a wife and two kids in Chile, and was eager to make some sales in Madrid. He also had some contacts in the area, whom he could trust to assist him. It went back to a mission he had once had, in his years of active duty, where he had saved some lives, and was owed a debt of gratitude.

Mycroft/Miguel would lie low for a whole, and then seek out his contacts. He would need more information in order to devise a strategy. He wondered how his still-beloved country was doing without him. He wondered if he was on anyone's mind. Did Mummy think about him? Did Dad? Sherlock? Or were they now one big, happy family, reunited with their daughter and sister, without the difficult son to destroy their happiness?

 _Stop that, Mycroft,_ Mind Sherlock warned. _Don't go all broody now. You're a man on a mission. You were banished, then you became a fugitive, but you need to come back. Stop wallowing, and get off your lazy backside. You need to do your own legwork now._

"Thank you, little brother," Mycroft said sarcastically. "What would I have done without you?"

 _"You'd be lost."_ Mind Sherlock grinned smugly.

The exiled man couldn't refute that. "If you ever come looking for me," he told the imaginary man, "I've left you a little note. Even a stupid little boy like you should be able to figure it out."

* * *

"That was just... wow," John breathed. He had never dreamed he would meet the monarch up close and personal like that.

"I would say she's impressive, but really, Mycroft as a _friend_? I would have thought our Queen would have better taste."

"I suppose Mycroft's been helpful on occasion, especially with PR," John mused. "I mean, it's obvious who retained him for the Adler case."

"I suppose anyone who's involved in ruling our country would make my brother's acquaintance. It's just that she seemed almost _fond_ of him."

"That she did," John stated wonderingly.

"I didn't peg Mycroft as a very likeable person," Sherlock stated. They were both quiet for a moment, contemplating the new insight they had gained into the elder Holmes.

"The next part of our mission is going to contain less pleasantries, I assure you. And it will also be more fun."

John observed Sherlock's thunderous face. _S_ _omeone_ was in for a world of Sherlock-induced pain. He wondered who. The why was obviously related to the unfair treatment of Mycroft. He tensed a bit under his freind's hard gaze.

"Sherlock, I'm not sure we should be doing anything of questionable legality at the moment. It might jeopardize our efforts."

"Don't be so worried, John, we won't lay a finger on anyone. We'll just be having a friendly chat."

Despite himself, John felt a shiver of anticipation running up his spine. There would be action, and it promised to be good."

The detective led his friend to a private residence, rivaling Mycroft's on splendor and size. He rang the doorbell confidently, and stated "Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson" When a voice inquired about their identities.

John hadn't been expecting to see the woman who opened the door.

"You could have made an appointment," she told Sherlock, somewhat harshly.

"Which I wouldn't have received. It was preferable this way. I'm sure you were just about to invite us in."

The woman reluctantly held the door open, and then led them into her study.

"Lady Smallwood," Sherlock began, in very formal tones. "What is your involvement in the mission of Mycroft Holmes?"


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** I wrote an accompanying piece to this story, called "Letter to a Banished Brother," where Sherlock explores the origins of his resentment towards Mycroft, and his conflicting feelings about his brother. Read it if that interests you:) Enjoy this chapter!

* * *

"Really, Mr. Holmes," the Lady replied curtly. "That information is classified."

"Not anymore," Sherlock leaned closer. "You signed off on it, didn't you?"

Lady Smallwood sat up rigidly, but didn't answer.

"That wasn't very sporting of you, was it, to have an old friend sent away in disgrace," Sherlock said softly.

"Pardon me, Mr. Holmes," Lady Smallwood said in indignation. "It wasn't my decision, and you know that! All I did was put my signature on a document. The mission would have gone on, regardless."

"Of course," the detective said gently. "You would never have betrayed a friend like that, would you? Then why sign at all? Why let your name be associated with such a travesty?"

The woman's face turned pale. "I had no choice," she said stiffly.

"No. You always have a choice," Sherlock retorted, his voice hard. "It was some sort of blackmail, wasn't it? Perhaps they wanted to play up your late husband's suicide. They would spread some rumors about you not coping very well with it, and being on the verge of a breakdown. Maybe they would also imply that your marriage wasn't very stable to begin with, if your husband felt the need to kill himself over an old affair."

"Sherlock!" John scolded, looking scandalized. "Stop that! You're just being cruel now."

"No. I'm just telling the truth now. Aren't I, _Alicia_?" he turned to the Lady and have her a piercing stare.

"I had to," she insisted, her voice choked. "They could have ruined my career."

"So instead, you ruined my brother's life. The man who helped you along with your career, and who was always loyal to his friends. The man who you admired so much, that you gave him your _personal_ phone number. I am extremely glad that my brother didn't take you up on your offer for some _drinks,_ and you didn't get to put your claws in him."

"I liked Mycroft. I still do. He would understand," she said desparately.

"He wouldn't _understand_ anything from six feet under," Sherlock said acidly. "You lent legitimacy to a vile scheme, that is meant to result in nothing less than the death of Mycroft Holmes. His blood is on your hands, Lady Smallwood."

The woman was now white as a sheet and trembling. "I didn't think he'd die over there. I thought Mycroft can take care of himself."

"Not when some people are actively making sure that he can't," Sherlock snapped.

"Look, I'm sorry. I-I shouldn't have agreed to that, I know. But it's too late now. There's nothing I can do."

"If you want to make up for at least some of the damage you caused, you will do exactly as I say," the detective said menacingly. "First, you will tell me exactly who's involved in this plot. Then you'll sign a statement that your signature was put under duress, and that you did not agree to sending Mycroft on the mission. I'll have a lawyer contact you. Furthermore, when there will be an internal investigation, you will tell only the truth, and put the blame that was shifted on Mycroft to where it truly belongs, no matter what personal consequences you might suffer."

"I'll think about it," Lady Smallwood said quietly.

"Think quickly then. Remember, though, that even if you got shot of Mycroft, you still have me to deal with." He gave her a grin that was terrifying in its unrestrained glee, and then left her to think some things over.

* * *

While working through the bureaucratic channels to bring Mycroft home, Sherlock was still worrying, and still grieving. It shocked him how empty his world felt without Big Brother around. He might even have thought at one point that he missed him, but that was just preposterous, wasn't it? Why would he miss someone who's presence annoyed him to the point of rage? When the very mention of his name brought him into a fit of frustration.

No, it was just that Mycroft's presence was _inconvenient._ Stealing Lestrade's ID would only get him that far, and he missed pinching off Mycroft. Then there were the little odds and ends, the annoyance of having to go through official channels instead of just picking up a phone to Big Brother. Then there was something he would never admit to anybody, least of all Mycroft; the feeling of security, when putting himself into dangerous situations, that no matter what happens, there's always Mycroft as a last resort.

Knowing that if he turned to drugs again, Mycroft would show up sooner or later, demanding a list; knowing that there was constant surveillance on him, which he usually managed to circumvent, but in case of emergency, could be useful. Knowing that there was at least one person out there who would worry about him, constantly; knowing that there was someone out there who would never, ever give up on him.

It was also pretty inconvenient not to have whom to pick on when his mood turned sour. He had to be extra sensitive with John now, after all the poor man had went through. DI Lestrade thought him a good man now, and he, for some reason, didn't want to spoil his illusions. His parents turned to him to solve all their issues, and Eurus depended on him. He needed a break from his goody-goody routine. He wanted to pick up a phone, and tell Mycroft he was getting slow, and gaining too much. He wanted to blow off some steam, annoy his brother in every way he could, and know that he was still understood and forgiven.

He might have also been a _tiny_ bit lonely. Oh, of course he had John, his best freind and partner-in-crime (crime- _solving,_ of course, only sometimes...) and Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, and so on. Yet there were times when his brain was running on overdrive, discovering new connections and puzzles, and he needed to talk to someone who just _understood,_ without him having to explain. He wouldn't need a lot; one or two words to Mycroft, a message wrapped in code, hidden in a jibe, and he would feel appreciated, acknowledged, and satisfied.

He needed Mycroft back, before he unraveled.


	9. Chapter 9

"Sir Michael Johnson," Sherlock pronounced triumphantly.

"What about him?" John asked absently. They were in the midst of working on a case involving three consecutive beheadings, and John was rereading a coroner's report when Sherlock made his proclamation.

"Mycroft's nemesis. The one who got him banished."

" _Johnson?_ But he's, he's..."

"The leader of the opposition party. One of the most powerful men in the country. Angling for the top position. Is that what you wanted to say?"

"That too. But I meant that he's always seemed more like a straightforward kind of guy, not some shady kind of spook or something..."

"You mean like Mycroft?" Sherlock grinned. "Welcome to the nasty world of politics, John."

"This isn't politics, Sherlock," said John, still looking disturbed. "It's more like murder."

"Yes," the detective replied, his face blank. "Yes, it is."

The subsequent meeting with Sir Johnson took place without the doctor's presence. Sherlock had stood firm on that point. "Johnson is a dangerous enemy to make," he had said. "As Mycroft's brother, I'm on his bad list already. You shouldn't have to get involved."

Now Sherlock was facing the man who was intent on destroying his older sibling. It was a battle of wits they would be playing, with the life of one Mycroft Holmes at stake.

"You know what I am," Sherlock said, going straight for the jugular. "I'm a detective. I uncover all those little things that people would prefer to remain buried for a living."

"Yes, you are the famous detective with that funny hat," Johnson smiled brazenly, showing teeth. "I'm sure Big Brother is very proud of you."

Sherlock nearly flinched at the cheap shot. "I could start with Amanda, and her little trip on taxpayer's expense," Sherlock mused, referencing the man's daughter. "Or I could just go straight to _your_ trip to France, and your meeting with that pretty blond entrepreneur, which I'm pretty sure was for official purposes only," Sherlock drawled.

"Listen, Holmes," the politician said, the smile never leaving his face. "You are just a little boy, messing with something much bigger than you. If you start mudslinging, I can do the same to you, and believe me, my I have a great supply of mud pies.

"What you should really be doing right now, is considering your motives for your current campaign. Is this a campaign for truth and justice? Or is this some kind of childish vengeance for those who have offended your brother?"

"Maybe I ask," Sherlock said softly, "why that matters?"

The older man leaned back in his chair, and looked at the detective thoughtfully. The younger man stared back. The silence stretched.

"Have you ever considered," the politician broke the silence, "that there were very good reasons for your brother's exile?"

"Your future career as Prime Minister?" Sherlock guessed.

"How about some actions that threatened the safety of our country?" Johnson retorted.

"Oh, please, this is getting dull. We both know that the accusations aren't quite accurate."

"You don't know everything, Mr. Detective. Have you ever considered that you don't know your brother as well as you think you do?"

Sherlock huffed. "I know him well enough."

"Hmm, so you say. Did you also know he was keeping major secrets from you? Like, for example, a sister hidden in an institution? A past that included a little friend that was murdered by said sister? Rings a bell?"

Sherlock tried not to show how much the target hit its mark. "That was different," he said stiffly.

"Perhaps. Perhaps there were other things your brother kept from you too, you know. Some activities and dealings he would prefer you not know about. He wouldn't like to have Little Brother change his opinion about him, would he?"

"You're bluffing," Sherlock challenged. "You can't prove it."

"I don't have to prove anything _to you._ You, Mr. Holmes, are technically a civilian, and although you've recieved clearance for certain projects, there are some places where you cannot go. It's enough that I have proved myself to the right authorities."

"Or lied to them."

"Look, I understand that you have some feelings of familial loyalty. I'm only asking you to consider what I've said."

"You'll be hearing from me," Sherlock said, as he got up.

"Sit down, please," Johnson said pleasantly. "There's one more thing I'd like to discuss with you."

* * *

Miguel Eduardo let two weeks pass before reaching out to his contacts. He first wanted to make sure that he hadn't been followed, and wouldn't be leading himself and his contact into a trap. He was now pretty certain that wasn't the case. Strangely enough, he had the gut feeling that no one was looking too hard for him at the moment. This worried him, because he couldn't figure out why, and that threw him off balance.

Nevertheless, he met with his contact. He set off a complicated chain that would pass on a message to one of his employees, and then recieve information back through the chain.

That employee was one he trusted, but it wasn't Anthea. Anthea was under too much scrutiny. Besides, although he would never admit it to anyone, he cared about that girl. Not in a romantic way, no; Anthea actually had a boyfriend with whom she had an on-and-off relationship, which Mycroft secretly hoped would one day become more permanent. He wanted to see his PA happy and taken care of.

His relationship with her was more like that of a distant uncle. He was mostly emotionally distant, but fiercely protective of her, and considering her family. Her boyfriend had learned to fear his black cars, which would show up whenever Mycroft felt the man needed a small "reminder" on how to treat his partner.

He would never put Anthea at risk. His next choice was Robert, an intelligent and loyal young employee. He sent a message, asking him to sniff around, and find out if the department was making a big deal of his disappearance. He also requested to be told what Sherlock was up too.

 _Sherlock._ He sighed. Perhaps he should have found a way to contact him... No. Sherlock most likely had no idea of how much trouble Mycroft had gotten himself into. If he was informed, he might do some reckless things. He would try to go up against some powerful people, and end up in a very precarious position. No, Mycroft had no right to ask his little brother to risk himself for his own sake. If Sherlock did start searchingredients, however, and found the message, he would know how to find him.

Mycroft waited another two weeks before he got his intel. Robert had been thorough. There were pictures, and documents, and Robert's own assessments.

Sherlock was up to something. He had met with the Queen. He had met with the Prime Minister. And he had met with Sir Michael Johnson.

There was one copy of a document that made him freeze. It was a contract of sorts, giving Sherlock the opportunity to do some work for the government. Security assessments, internal investigations, international reconnaissance. Work that had been _Mycroft's_ domain. In return, Sherlock would recieve the highest level of clearance, access to all sorts of governmental resources, and a significant amount of access and control over a certain patient contained on Sherrinford.

It was clear who had written the document. Sir Johnson was the only one with both the power and right motives to come up with such a proposal. The question was, had Sherlock signed it?

Mycroft felt a deep pang of betrayal. Was that what all of Sherlock's meetings were about? Were they trying to replace Mycroft with his own brother?

 _No, Sherlock would never do that to me. He does care about me._

A disturbing image popped into his thoughts. An image of his little brother holding a gun to his older brother's heart. _But he would never pull the trigger, would he?_

Perhaps not. But would he be willing to sacrifice Mycroft for, let's say, Dr. Watson's sake? To gain more power, in order to be able to better protect his friend?

Or would he do it for Eurus? To have a say in her care? After all, Sherlock had promised he would find a way to reach her. Their sister was so sick and helpless, withdrawn into her she'll.

 _And whose fault is that? Mine, of course. It would be very understandable if Sherlock despises me._

 _Does he?_

 _Would he?_


	10. Chapter 10

Sir Michael Johnson retained his smug expression as he outlined his proposal to Sherlock. The politician had put a lot of effort into making the deal appealing to the younger Holmes. The duties he would be responsible for were the type that appealed to the detective, according to Johnson's research.

Sherlock had several good reasons to accept, in Sir Michael's opinion, and little reason to refuse. He would get the the thrill of using his skills while working for the government, access to any lab he wished to work on his little experiments, and more influence in the government. According to the research, Sherlock was very concerned about his sister, and would jump at the opportunity to control her care.

There was also the fact that he would be sort of replacing Mycroft. Sir Michael assumed that would be a plus for Sherlock. He was well aware of the fiercely competitive nature of their relationship, and the bitterness Sherlock felt towards his brother for usually having the upper hand. The politician was fairly confident that Sherlock would sign, albeit not before putting his own terms into the contract.

Yet there was the fact that the detective seemed so upset by his brother's treatment. Perhaps there was more sentiment involved in the brothers' relationship than he had realized. Never mind, he could play up that angle, top. After all, with more power and access, Sherlock would be able to investigate and help Mycroft's case.

"So what do you think?" he drawled. "This might make it easier for you to continue with your own investigation, if you're not ready to take my word for it." He smiled benignly, in an almost paternal sort of way. " You can take some time to think about it, if you like."

"Oh, there's no need," Sherlock said airily. "I've made up my mind. Give me that contract."

"Make sure you read it over carefully," he cautioned, while suppressing a cry of triumph.

Sherlock took the paper from him without a word. He didn't glance at it once. Slowly and methodically, he ripped it up into tiny pieces, his expression remaining blank all the while.

"You have my answer," he said flatly. Johnson watched him leave, feeling hot rage bubble up inside him. Sherlock Holmes would still learn his place. He would make sure of it.

He smiled cruelly as he contemplated his next step. Mycroft Holmes was out there somewhere, probably waiting for his little brother to come to his rescue. He would kill two birds with one stone. He would destroy the trust Mycroft had in his little brother, and in that way, he would destroy both of those pesky Holmes's.

* * *

Sherlock felt he had reached an impasse in his mission. "Know thy enemy" was a step in the right direction, but now he was somewhat at a loss. Johnson wasn't as malleable as he had hoped. Going against him directly was too much of a risk at this stage. Sir Michael was too powerful and well-connected, and Sherlock doubted that even the Prime Minister or the Queen would be at loggerheads with him, only for the sake of Mycroft Holmes.

What else was there to do? He hated to admit it, but he needed help. He could use the advice of someone even smarter than himself. He chuckled in bitter amusement. Where was that overweight, annoying busybody when you finally needed him? "Mycroft, how could you do this to me?"

 _Why, hello, brother dear! I must admit, I expected you to come much earlier. Having a hard time admitting that we're stumped, aren't we?_

Sherlock realized that he had drifted off into his Mind Palace. As usual, some of the people he wanted to see the least were waiting to welcome him. "Don't irritate me now, brother mine, or I'll leave. I did come here for _your_ sake, you know."

Mind Mycroft smiled in amusement. _Weren't you the one who invited me here? This is your head, after all._

Sherlock sighed in frustration. "I wish I would have had some control over my head. Unfortunately, my mind has a mind of its own."

Mind Mycroft chuckled. _You need to learn to control it, sometime. Now, how can I help you, little brother?_

"The question is how I could help _you,_ since the actual you has gotten himself into a fine pickle," Sherlock retorted.

 _Hmm, I see you've done a good job so far. Prepared the soil, planted the seed._

"And a seed, once it's planted, grows roots," Sherlock rejoined.

 _Exactly. Now, what do you need in order to take down Sir Johnson._

"Information. I need to know his pressure points, I suppose. And, uh, I really need to get all the details about the operations you were involved with. So I can prove, black-on-white, that you are not to blame."

 _Who would be able to give you that?_

"Well, you would."

 _So come get me._

 _"Get you?"_

 _Yes. The soil has been prepared. The seeds have been planted. Now come and bring me home._

* * *

The little jaunt of his need some preparation. Anthea's help was vital, of course, and she was more than willing to provide it. She would also serve as the lookout on the home front, keeping an eye out on the anti-Mycroft faction and their machininations.

John would be coming along, of course. Sherlock felt a pang of guilt at dragging his friend into this. He consoled himself with the fact that they most likely wouldn't be in fatal danger. Their opponents wouldn't be stupid enough to try to eliminate them, which would only make them look bad. Or would they?

The detective pushed away his doubts. He was afraid time was running out. Mycroft had made enough enemies around the world, and when news of his escape leaked out, as well as the fact that he was currently alone and without protection, the predators would all pounce simultaneously.

"I'll be leaving for several weeks, Mrs. Hudson," he informed his landlady.

"By yourself?" she asked him, brows creasing in concern.

"No, John's coming with me."

"Good, good," she nodded in approval. "I'll tell him to make sure you're eating. You're practically skin and bones as is!"

"You know I don't eat when I'm on a case," he waved her away.

"Oh, is it a case? I was hoping that the both of you, you know... never mind."

"Yeah, something for Mycroft," he said absently.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his landlady freeze up. "Don't tell me that brother of yours is putting you into danger _again_. And John, too! Whatever were you thinking, Sherlock, accepting a case like that from him?"

Sherlock was struck by a sudden thought. _I haven't finished preparing the soil._ How could he bring Mycroft home like this? Mrs. Hudson wasn't the only one who was current antagonistic towards Mycroft.

His brother would come back to co-workers who had either betrayed him, or not done anything to help him (excepting Anthea, of course). To parents who were angry, and blaming him for destroying the family. John was eager to assist Sherlock now, but would he prove to be more tolerant of Mycroft?

Would Sherlock himself be able to change his usual attitude towards Mycroft, once his brother was safe at home?

Would he bring Mycroft out of solitude, only to have him face isolation?


	11. Chapter 11

Lady Smallwood had turned out to be pretty helpful in the end, trying to make up for her role in the betrayal of Mycroft. Sherlock could see that she seemed sincere, but he wasn't ready to forgive her. Not yet, when Mycroft was still exiled.

With the Lady's assistance, Sherlock was able to begin tracking Mycroft's travels and travails while on the mission. Together with John, he traveled to Kiev, where his older brother's presence was last established. He spent the plane ride playing cards with John, desparate for the distraction.

Despite John's long years of expertise, Sherlock had easily won, deducing John's hand by the expression on his face. "Really, John, with such a dismal attempt at a poker face, it's a wonder you ever won anything," he ribbed his friend.

"Not everyone is as sharp as the world's only consulting detective," the doctor shrugged good-naturedly. "I'll have you know that I was considered an expert."

"Hmm, I thought your expertise was established in a different area, one that earned you the lovely moniker of Three Continents Wa-"

"Shut up," John retorted, blushing slightly. "You know, I can always skip out on our plans, and do some touring. Or head straight back home," he warned.

"But it could be dangerous, John!" Sherlock wheedled.

The doctor gave him a Look that was definitely cultivated in his army days. "This isn't about my adrenalin cravings, Sherlock. I'm here because this is important to you, and therefore just as important to me."

Sherlock stilled. "That's, that's good of you, John," he said, in his slightly awkward manner reserved for all things smacking of sentiment.

They both spent a few moments in comfortable silence. Then Sherlock broke it by clearing his throat, and asking a question in an unusually hesitant tone. "Do you think, John, that Mycroft will be happy to come back?"

John looked at him in surprise. "Happy? What of you mean, happy? Why not? I mean, yeah, it's Mycroft you're talking about, so he probably won't be throwing a grand party, or jumping for joy, but why wouldn't he be glad to be home?"

"That's my question, exactly. Home, to what?"

"Well, whatever he's been doing before, I guess. Being the British Government- oh, I see," John broke off thoughtfully. "He was betrayed by the people he worked with, and the government he worked for, wasn't he?"

Sherlock just sighed.

"I would say he could get a different job, but I honestly don't know what other position would engage his interests and talents in the same way."

"Hmmm," was Sherlock's lazy reply.

"I'm sure he'll be glad to come home to to his family and, and..." John trailed off.

"Exactly. Mycroft doesn't have _friends,_ " Sherlock interjected.

"Oh, dear me, how could I have forgotten?" John asked sarcastically. "But Mycroft does have family, at least."

"Most of whom are not on speaking terms with him," the detective said gravely.

John whistled. "That bad?"

"That bad."

"Hmm, I can't say I blame your parents. It was an awful thing to do, telling them their daughter died. I mean, if God forbid, my Rosie..."

"I don't blame them either, John. Neither can I blame Mycroft, who was merely continuing Uncle Rudy's work, and wasn't the one who informed them of her 'death'. Nor can I blame him for agreeing to go along with the charade. I do think that that decision was undertaken only after painful deliberations, and was considered the best of all the dreadful options."

"I hear you. But it will take time for your parents to forgive, won't it?"

"Likely. Unfortunately their mentality has been clouded by sentiment, which always obscures logic."

John smiled. "Sherlock Holmes, are you saying sentiment is a fault?"

"Obviously," the detective answered impatiently.

"Then why exactly are you going after your brother?"

Sherlock answered with an irritated huff, and with that, the conversation was closed.

They arrived in Kiev, and decided to start by visiting the three sage houses on the list, where Mycroft had resided at one point or another. They didn't know in what order he had used then, or how long he had stayed in each one, so the plan was to search each one for clues.

"The first one on my list is on Fish Lane," Sherlock remarked, clutching some documents, which were written in code, and looked like gibberish to John.

"Fish Lane, really? I was expecting something like Nikolovskaya Street, or the like."

"I'm not kidding. Then there's one on Barenboim Street, and then there's one on Berdichivskaya, in order to make you feel comfortable."

John rolled his eyes. They took a cab to Fish Lane, while John inhaled the sights around him. For all his travels, he had never visited this part of the world before.

The drab, unassuming flat on the fourth floor was given a quick inspection by Sherlock, who then dismissed it as "not the one," and rushed down the stairs.

"What are we looking for?" John asked curiously.

"Clues," Sherlock answered shortly.

"Thanks a lot," John retorted facetiously.

Barenboim was similarly dismissed, but Berdichivskaya seemed to spark Sherlock's interest as soon as they stood at the front door. "Look, John, the knocker!"

"Yes?" the doctor asked in confusion.

"It's crooked!"

"Wait, I thought Mycroft always straightens the knocker?"

"Exactly! That's the clue!"

"Umm, alright," said John, not really understanding. "But couldn't it have been done by whoever wad here before us? I mean, weren't _they_ searching for him?"

"No, they weren't. My sources assured me of that." Sherlock paused thoughtfully. "It seems obvious that they don't really want to find him now. It's better for them that he's ruined his reputation himself, by abandoning his post."

"So they'll leave him alone?"

"For now," Sherlock said darkly, and then fiddled with the alarm system, disabled it, and picked the lock.

The flat was mostly bare, save for some well-used furniture. John knocked into the umbrella stand, upsetting it, and causing a single black umbrella to fall to the floor.

"Aha!" Sherlock cried in triumph, snatching the umbrella. He inspected the brolly, twisting the handle this way and that, until it came off. A piece of paper came tumbling out from the object's hollow innards.

Sherlock held up the paper for John to see. There were some words written on it in red ink. "It's the Pirate Code," Sherlock explained.

"You and Mycroft had a Pirate Code?" John exclaimed in disbelief.

"I was five!" Sherlock said defensively. "It's actually a very simple code, which is what makes it so useful. People will expect it to be complicated. The red ink signals that Pirate Code is being used."

John read the words out loud. "The Musk, Great Cabin Underside, Redbeard, Smart One."

"The Musk is shorthand for Musgrave," Sherlock explained.

"So there's something hidden in Musgrave?"

"No, John, Musgrave means home."

"Mycroft's house then?"

"I'm not sure. He never refers to his house as home. Neither does he view our parents' cottage as such. Still, he could have been using this code for lack of-"

"Perhaps he meant _your_ home?" John suggested.

"Brilliant! You are proving somewhat useful indeed, John. 221 Baker Street! Of course! Then the Great Cabin, traditionally reserved for the Captain, refers to my room, of course. The underside means hidden under the floorboards under my bed. And Redbeard... yes, he left his plans in a small safe, and the unlock code must be the numerical equivalent to Redbeard. And that last thing is his coy little way of reminding me who the smart one is, and telling me to refer to Plan Number Seven, being that he's my senior by seven years."

"Oh," John blinked. "That's... not bad. Not bad at all," he said admiringly. "You know, if you two put your heads together a bit more often, you might have been ruling the world by now," he grinned.

"Who wants to rule the world when you have to be Mycroft's Number Two?" Sherlock shook his head in disgust.

* * *

In a lovely hotel room in Barcelona, Miguel Eduardo examined the documents he held over and over again, his mouth gaping in disbelief.

There were several missives, intercepted from Sir Michael, headed towards one Mr. Sherlock Holmes. They were all regarding Sherlock's new position, officially as Security Consultant for the Home Office. Some were discussing payment, a nice six-figure sum, if he read it correctly.

There was one document that stood out. It was written in somewhat vague language, but Mycroft had worked long enough in his position that he could understand the gist of it. It was a reminder to Mr. Sherlock Holmes of his commitment to remain uninvolved in a certain ongoing MI6 project, and it outlined the terms and conditions of Sherlock's non-involvement.

The "project" it was referring to was clearly none other than Mycroft, and the terms and conditions mainly involved Sherlock's continued employment and privileges. The consulting detective was being asked to turn a blind eye to whatever would happen to Mycroft, in exchange to keeping his new position.

Mycroft re-read the document with mounting horror and sickening fear. It wasn't possible. How could Sherlock have thrown him to the wolves?


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** A message to my wonderful readers: as I have posted on some of my other stories, I find myself with several WIP's, and would like to know which ones you'd most want to be updated. I will concentrate on whichever stories I get the biggest response for. So, enjoy the chapter, and let me know!

* * *

 _Wasn't it ironic,_ Sherlock thought to himself, _how one could go chasing after a clue, in foreign countries, miles and miles away, when the answer could lie in one's very own home?_

221b held the answers. Sherlock rifled through the papers he found, smiling. Miguel Eduardo it was, in Madrid. Of course, Plan Number Seven included option B and C if A didn't work out, by Sherlock was definitely on the right track.

Off to Spain it was then, but not before creating some diversions. If Johnson caught on to Sherlock's plans, that would spell disaster. John put a notice on the blog that the pair would be off to France for a couple of weeks, investigating a case. Then Sherlock booked tickets to Sweden. On the day of their departure, John and Sherlock were seen boarding a plane heading to Switzerland.

With Anthea's help, the pair disappeared from the plane shortly before take-off, donned their disguises, and were discreetly transported to a small aircraft heading to Belgium. It would still be several long and arduous days before they arrived at their destination, yet every precaution would be taken.

Operation Umbrella was on its way.

* * *

Sherlock's betrayal hurt Mycroft, deeply. Somewhere deep down, he still refused to believe it. He had thought Sherlock had held some regard for him, some brotherly affection, despite their rivalry. The scene at the airport ran through his mind continuously. Sherlock hugging him, and begging him to come back. That was genuine.

Mycroft had no trouble believing in Sherlock's inherent goodness. He had trouble believing in his own. If Mycroft himself was despicable, it followed that others wouldn't find him worth saving.

Of course, Sherlock was different. He was sentimental about family. Even Eurus, after all she had done to them, had recieved Sherlock's compassion and assistance. Yet if Sherlock had to chose between protecting innocent people, _good_ people, like their parents for example, or John Watson and his daughter, or Mrs. Hudson (alright, she was _somewhat_ innocent, at least), and protecting Mycroft...

Well, if Sherlock had morals, he would place someone like Mycroft last. Someone who lied, manipulated, and destroyed lives for a living should never be given priority. Someone who locked up his little sister in hell, and then broke his parents' hearts by claiming she was dead, didn't deserve to be put first.

Mycroft bowed his head, accepting his situation, accepting his doom. It hurt, truthfully, it burned at his heart with a stinging pain, but it wasn't Sherlock's betrayal that pained him so much. It was the fact that he deserved it.

Several days later, in the El Pais, the most popular daily in Madrid, Mycroft found a small announcement in the classifieds. It read, in Spanish, "YB looking for Miguel Eduardo. Bringing TCW. Please contact."

Yellowbeard was coming, along with John "Three Continents" Watson. How cruel could Sherlock's masters be, to send him to bring his own brother to justice? Mycroft was surprised by that, not only because Sherlock was the appointed agent. The British Government would have thought there would be a clean assassination, no-traces-left kind of operation.

It seemed that the government still had use for him, or rather, his mind. They wanted to take him, milk him for all the information and knowledge he kept locked in his head, and then get rid of him.

Did Sherlock know what he was doing? Mycroft didn't believe so. He probably believed he was helping Mycroft, who had run from his mission in a bout of irrational fear, and Sherlock would be acting as a liaison between him and the government, to reassure him and bring him back.

Sherlock would never forgive himself if he unwittingly led Mycroft into a trap. There was only one thing the elder could do, to save his little brother, once again.

* * *

The next morning, El Pais carried Mycroft's response. "Att. YB. ME heading home. No need to follow up. Thank you."

"Sherlock?" John asked, confused and more than a bit alarmed.

In response, Sherlock slammed his fist on the table. "No, no, NO! The bloody _idiot_!"

"Did he..." John asked hesitantly.

"He went back. To his executioners. _Willingly._ After I told him I'm coming! Why would he do that, John? Doesn't he realize what he's getting himself into?"

"Look, Sherlock," John began placatingly. "We don't really know what happened. We don't know what kind of circumstances he found himself in. Perhaps he has a good reason."

"No. You don't see it, John, do you? _I scare him away._ Mycroft would rather go back than face me. Doesn't he trust me? Does he think I'm out to- no, impossible. Does he think I came here to _betray_ him?"

"Sherlock! You're not making any sense." The doctor was perplexed.

"It fits. He could have believed I'm looking to find him, in order to hand him over to his handlers. He then decided to protect me from having a hand in his demise, so he's going to give himself up. He did see how hard other was for me to shoot him," Sherlock said bitterly.

"Do you really think he believes you'd want him dead?"

"Hmmm, no. More like I'm innocently acting on orders, believing I'm only setting him back on track for his mission. He always did think I'm stupid."

"So what do we do now?"

"Find out who was feeding Mycroft false info. I do have my suspicions, of course, but I need to clarify the details."

"Yes, but what about Mycroft?"

"We need to find him, but more importantly, we need to get him to trust us. I'm afraid, John, that after the way he's been treated all those years, it will be more difficult than you think."


	13. Chapter 13

The homebound Mycroft Holmes had never felt more free. Ironic though that was, as he knew his return would be greeted with the cordiality of prompt incarceration. Mycroft hadn't even attempted to in any way disguise himself, booking his ticket under his own name. He was resigned to his fate, and at the same time exhilarated by it.

Free at last. No more hiding, running, living in fear. No more disguises and subterfuge. He was Mycroft Holmes, and would gladly accept any fate that came along with that identity.

By giving himself up, he was freeing himself of the burdens of responsibility he was carrying around until now, while at the same time freeing Sherlock from any duty of conscience to him. Truly, it was a winning situation for everyone all around.

His little brother could now continue in his new career without feeling torn about being disloyal to Mycroft. Sherlock would protect their parents, and look out for Eurus. He would do all of it with the grace of compassion that Mycroft so decidedly lacked. His new duties would also force Sherlock to act more responsibly, and hopefully protect him from his nasty habit of cocaine snorting.

As to Sherlock's security, it had definitely been upgraded by Sir Johnson to the highest levels, now that the detective was considered an asset.

Mycroft was under no illusion as to what would happen to himself. He was too big to be held in some mere high-security prison. He was definitely worthy of being given "special treatment," held in someplace akin to Sherrinford, unknown and unseen by the average citizen. Perhaps he would be tortured a la Moriarty, before being made to quietly disappear.

And wasn't that the greatest freedom of all?

* * *

"It's too late, John," Sherlock shook his head in frenzied exasperation. "Mycroft is on board a flight that just took off."

"How would you know that?" John asked in surprise.

"The airline's computer says so."

"But how do you know which flight he's on?"

"He booked under his own name."

"His own name? But... no, he's not stupid. That had to be a diversion of some kind."

"I checked the security cameras. It was him. He just gave up, John. Just. Like. That."

Sherlock showed the security footage he had hacked into to his friend.

The image of a man very much resembling Mycroft was calmly walking to towards the gate. He was much thinner than John recalled, and had lost more of his hair. Yet his gait was unmistakable. It contained all the deliberateness and pomposity of a man who was very confident with both himself, and his intended destination.

Then the man turned towards the camera, and Sherlock zoomed into the image as much as possible. The man seemed to stare straight at them, and then smiled.

"Yup, that's him," John admitted. "Nobody else can give you the creeps in that way just by smiling."

"We need to go home," Sherlock said thoughtfully.

John wanted to make some kind of quip, like, "But we just came here!" or, "We haven't even toured any of the sights yet!"

The sight of Sherlock's slumped shoulders made him swallow those retorts. Instead, he nodded his head firmly. "Home."

* * *

The familiar sight of several black Audi's lying in wait as soon as he had stepped out of the airport building, made Mycroft smile sardonically. This time, they weren't there to protect the (former) British Government, only to prevent his escape.

Two agents stepped out of the first car, and approached Mycroft. The latter, rolling his small suitcase along the floor, looked up at them and grinned. One of them was a former trainee of his, and looked nearly panicked. The other one wasn't familiar to him, but shared a similar expression.

"Gentlemen," he said politely, gifting them with his trademarked stare, one that had made the strongest of men cower in their boots. His cold, scrutinizing glare assessed the two men, inferring their every weakness and insecurity.

"Sir," his former trainee began, a hint of a quaver in his voice. "You need to come with us," he continued resolutely, valiantly trying to hold Mycroft's gaze.

"Is that so?" the Iceman asked mildy, with barely a hint of sarcasm.

The second agent courageously tried his luck. "We have our orders, Sir, and it would be better if you would, uh, accompany us v-voluntarily," he got out quickly, nearly tripping over his words.

"I see," Mycroft answered, looking at them pityingly. "What have you two done to deserve this unfortunate mission? Or was it drawing straws?"

The agents seemed to be struggling to regain their composure, and Mycroft let them flounder for a few moments, until he finally had mercy on them.

"Hmm, yes, this was in retaliation for some slight to your immediate superior. I would have hoped you would learn to hold your tongue, Jenkins. And you," he turned to the other agent, "you must have definitely learnt your lesson regarding consuming excess alcohol.

"Now, gentlemen, I would appreciate a lift in your car. It's getting harder to flag a cab these days, isn't it?"

Mycroft followed the two young men into the car, and then sat back in satisfaction. He had given himself up, true, and his status was that of a wanted criminal, but his reputation was still alive and well, it seemed. He would take what he could.

Mycroft was driven around for several hours, until he arrived at a military complex, in the far north of the country. Usually, prisoners were brought to this place blindfolded, so they would be unaware of their location.

In Mycroft's case, that was useless. He was well aware of the secret prison complex several stories underground, and would have recognized it as soon as he was taken in. So he now had the privilege to walk in, with no sort of blindfold or even restraints. Yet being taken here was by itself the strongest statement of him being a prisoner, nonetheless.

He was led to the Warden's office, where he had the great pleasure of meeting his nemesis face-to-face.

"Michael," Mycroft greeted the politician with affected politeness. "What a surprise." His tone indicated that it was anything but.

"Mycroft," Johnson said, his tone full of false pity. "Mycroft, Mycroft," he repeated, shaking his head sadly. "Who would ever have believed that it would come to this? We give you, out of the kindness of our hearts, one little mission to complete, in order to prove yourself, and regain our trust. And what did you do? You bailed on us. What could have made you act in such a foolish manner?"

"One little mission, to regain you trust," Mycroft repeated in disgust. "Come now, Johnson, we both know the mission was, for all intents and purposes, a suicidal one."

Johnson heaved a put-upon sigh. "Mycroft, my friend, it was you yourself who chose this alternative. Surely, if you did, you must have thought you could make this work." Johnson suddenly switched to a threatening tone. "Even if you didn't, you should have followed through. When you accept a mission, you cannot abandon it without suffering the consequences."

"You say I chose this," Mycroft replied evenly. "In reality, I was forced into it. The alternative was unthinkable, and therefore I had to accept. However, I didn't know at that time quite how hopeless the mission was, and quite how rigged it was to ensure my demise."

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," the politician replied blandly. "Even if I somehow did, I'm sure you couldn't really prove it. Mistakes happen all the time, you know, and every mission has its kinks."

And that, Mycroft reflected, was as close to an admission of his deliberate interference that Johnson would ever give.

"As to the alternative," Johnson continued, clearly enjoying himself, "all we wanted to do was take a bit of a closer look regarding your brother's activities, and your involvement in them. I don't see why that was so unthinkable. It's not as if you would ever, for example, cover for him, or use government resources inappropriately to assist him, would you?"

Mycroft nearly gritted his teeth in frustration. "That discussion is over. This is not about my brother, this is about me."

Johnson smiled triumphantly. "Yes, speaking about that, what do you say about your brother's new career?"


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** I feel I should have given you a longer chapter, considering that it's been a while since I've updated. Yet I didn't find time now for much more, and I thought this better than nothing.

I'd also like to apologize for using "Sir Johnston" in the last chapter for "Sir Michael Johnson." Not only because I got the last name wrong, but, as one reviewer notified me before, he would properly be called "Sir Michael." Hope you enjoy the rest!

* * *

Every precaution was taken in the security of Mycroft Holmes. It appeared that Johnston was terrified of losing his conquest. Mycroft himself smirked internally at the man's foolishness. He wouldn't run. His decision was final.

Nevertheless, after five days of incarceration, Mycroft sometimes began having second thoughts. His accomodations were pretty uncomfortable, and everything short of outright torture was implemented so that he would be the lights were on 24/7. At random intervals through the day, or night, the guards would filter in some horrible sounds parading as music, at a volume that never failed to make him cringe.

The ex-British Government began to feel his nerves were quickly fraying. All the Holmes siblings were hypersensitive to stimuli, and suffered from sensory issues. Mycroft in particular was very particular about sound and touch. He needed the Diogenes Club like Sherlock needed his nicotine patches. His suits were bespoke not only for making a statement.

The assualt of lights and sounds, and the ill-fitting and scratchy clothing he was provided with, would have been enough to drive him up the wall. When it was combined with the complete lack of intellectual stimulation, Mycroft became certain he would lose his mind, rather sooner than later. When he began wishing for even another conversation with Johnson to relieve his endless boredom, he was convinced he already had.

The elder Holmes took to once again disappearing into his mind, in order to preserve whatever sanity he had left. Mind Sherlock was ever obliging to engage him, so unlike the man he represented.

"Little Brother, I hope you're not feeling too guilty about this," Mycroft told him. "You just did what you had to do. It was my own decision to turn myself in."

"You deserve this, you know," Mind Sherlock told him. "You left me to fend for myself. You left me with all the responsibilty. This is all your fault."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft told the image sincerely. "I know I deserve this. I let you down."

"Whom exactly are you talking to?"

Mycroft stared at Mind Sherlock. He hadn't even opened his mouth, yet Mycroft had heard his voice very clearly. "Sherlock?" he asked him in confusion. The image smirked at him, and then turned around to walk away.

"Mycroft!" There was his voice again, but he couldn't even see him! Something was off here. He heard his name being called again, in a louder tone this time. He looked around in bewilderment, and couldn't find the source of the call. Suddenly, he felt his shoulders being grabbed roughly, and shaken thoroughly.

Mycroft's eyes flew open, and there, right in front of him, stood his little brother in the flesh.

"You shouldn't be here," was the first response Mycroft could think of.

"Well, I never am where I should be, am I?" Sherlock smirked.

"What's going on?" Mycroft asked in confusion.

"I came here to visit, and I saw you had disappeared into your Mind Globe, but your lips were moving slightly. I deduced that you were talking to somebody in there," Sherlock said, pointing a finger to his brother's temple.

"To you, actually," Mycroft blurted out.

Sherlock frowned. "I didn't even know you had me in there at all," he said softly.

"Wellman who else would be there?" Mycroft asked sarcastically.

"World leaders, dictators, all the pleasant sort of people you usually deal with," Sherlock shrugged. "I didn't think you'd allow _sentiment_ to invade."

Mycroft looked at his brother tiredly. At another time, he might have snarked back something about his brother merely being there as a sometimes useful asset, or as a harbinger of trouble. Now he only looked at him quietly, his eyes observing and deducing, as far as he was still capable.

"How were you allowed in here?" he asked Sherlock quietly.

"I pulled some strings."

Mycroft's heart twisted. Yes, Sherlock had some power now. He was working for Johnson, after all. Which reminded him, he had some things he wished to say to Sherlock.

"Little Brother," he began, "I hope you're not feeling too guilty about this. You just did what you had to do. It was my own decision to turn myself in."

Really Sherlock was apparently much slower than Mind Sherlock, because he appeared thoroughly confused by that.

"I don't get it," he stated. "What does your decision to turn yourself in have anything to do with my doing what I had to?"

Mycroft was at a loss. Could Sherlock really fail to see the connection?

"I know why you were looking for me. I didn't want you to be used as a pawn in Johnson's game, so I turned myself in without your help. I would have done it either way, Sherlock. I was tired of running."

"Oh, Mycroft," Sherlock said, sighing. He fixed his big brother with a look that contained disappointment and concern, and even a hint of pity. The elder brother was familiar with that look, one he had given Sherlock many times over the years, when the latter got himself into trouble. Mycroft felt something break inside of him at that look being returned to him.

"So you really thought I took Johnson's offer," Sherlock said quietly. "Why would you ever believe I would do that?" Sherlock's words were laced with genuine hurt.

The older man bowed his head a fraction, shame welling up inside of him. How badly had he misjudged his brother? "I supposed you were just doing what you had to. Not for your own gain. For protection. For John, for our parents, for Eurus."

Sherlock looked contemplative. "I see. I suspected Johnson was feeding you a line, but I didn't know precisely what. So tell me, Mycroft, you think I would work with my brother's betrayer, in order to get some benefits for others?"

Mycroft gulped. "I know your heart is in the right place, Sherlock. It wouldn't be comfortable working with a man like Johnson, but you would do it for your family."

Sherlock stared at him, hard. "You were talking to me in your mind. What did Mind Me have to say about this."

Mycroft looked away. "You said," he whispered. He cleared his throat, and tried again. "You said I deserved it. For deserting you. For leaving all the responsibilty for everyone's welfare on your shoulders."

Sherlock was silent for several moments. "That was your own guilty conscience talking. That wasn't me." He reached out and put a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "You have my real self now to set you straight."

Mycroft was awash with immense relief. "Then kindly do. I'd like to know what's really happening."

Sherlock sat himself back on the uncomfortable chair, while Mycroft shifted around on the bed he sat on. "First, let me tell you this," Sherlock smiled. "Welcome back, Mycroft. Things haven't been the same without you."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** It's been a difficult few weeks with my writing, with lack of time and inspiration playing a big role in that. I would really love to hear some feedback, so I'll know that people out there are still enjoying this story. Or, if they aren't, perhaps they can tell me what I can do better?

I'll take constructive criticism over no feedback at all. This story is actually winding to a close, so any questions, or anything you'd still like to see in here, please let me know. Thanks, and enjoy the rest!

* * *

Mycroft lay on his lumpy bed, tossing and turning as usual. This time, it wasn't his usual worries and regrets that made him so agitated, although his physical discomforts were present in their usual form. Mycroft was worrying now about Sherlock.

He couldn't deny, even to himself, that it had been good to see his little brother. As short as the visit was, Mycroft was still updated with the basics. Mummy and Dad were fine, though getting a little suspicious about Mycroft's extended mission. Sherlock himself, as it turned out, had never betrayed him, had never even had a thought about that. Sherlock had filled him in on his conversations with Johnson, and his efforts behind the scene, with the major political players.

The ex-british Governor was now fuming not only at Johnson, who had so readily outwitted him, but also at himself, at his being taken in so easily. If only he had had a little more trust in his brother, he thought guiltily. If only he had bothered to make contact with Sherlock, they wouldn't have been in this position now. The brothers could have worked together, to bring Mycroft home in a much more dignified manner. Instead, Sherlock would now be working by himself, and who knew what kind of trouble that headstrong idiot would find himself in now.

Yes, he had definitely messed up, Mycroft mused to himself. He took several deep breaths, and tried to clear his mind. He needed to get some sleep, if he was to retain any shred of his rapidly waning sanity. Just as he had managed to put himself into a state of semi-hypnosis, which was to aid him in his quest for some shut-eye, the dreadful music started again.

Harshly being ripped out of his meditative state did nothing for Mycroft's mood. In fact, he felt himself dangerously close to a Sherlock-like tantrum. For a moment, he considered the release of banging his head against the wall, hopefully until unconsciousness. The grating sounds hammered at his eardrums, again and again, and then the lights started flickering. Mycroft nearly whimpered.

In disgust, he threw his pillow to the floor. Then he stared at it in sudden consternation, as he recalled something Sherlock had said. "I hope you don't find too many lumps in your pillow. If you do, you'll just have to remove them, won't you?"

Could he have meant something with that? Suddenly eager, Mycroft grabbed the pillow and replaced it on the bed. Then he blocked the camera's view by turning his back to it. Stealthily, he felt inside the pillowcase for his treasure. He removed it, and nearly burst with relief at the sight.

A pure silk eye mask, and foam earplugs. With a little maneuvering, he could put them on under the covers, and, sleeping with his face to the wall, and the cover mostly over his head, keep his new acquisitions a secret.

 _Ah, sleep, glorious sleep,_ Mycroft thought, sighing contentedly, as his world turned dark and silent. _Thank you, brother mine._

* * *

After clarifying several details with Mycroft, mostly through hints and coded language, Sherlock felt he had enough to go on. He threw himself into arranging the next step; a meeting that would include all the significant players in power.

Before that, he would need to call in one more favor. He was sure Mycroft's very good, very old friend would be willing to do her part.

Sherlock would have dearly wished to being John along to the meeting. John might not have a lot to add when political intrigue was involved, yet even his quiet presence was useful, for boosting Sherlock's confidence and soothing his nerves, with the knowledge that his friend would have his back, no matter what.

Unfortunately, John was not officially cleared for everything that would be discussed at the meeting, and the authorities denied Sherlock's request for John's presence. It was Sherlock that they trusted, not someone who they viewed as an assistant and sidekick. Sherlock had dismantled Moriarty's network himself, and was to go on the Eastern European mission by himself, once again. Sherlock would need to clear his brother's name himself, this time, too.

Head held high, Sherlock looked around at the assembled group, and held the eyes if those he could trust to be on his side for several seconds longer. Anthea gave him a sympathetic smile, and Lady Smallwood a curt but resolute nod. Sir Charles Edwin gave him a grave look, which Sherlock knew to interpret as a promise of support. Sherlock held Sir Michael Johnson's gaze boldly, contempt flashing in his eyes.

Sherlock greeted the Prime Minister politely, and nodded at the several other assorted politicians. Then he sat down, ready for battle.

The topic on the agenda was, of course, the trajectory of Mycroft Holmes's fall from grace. Yet Sherlock begged pardon from the honored assembly to introduce some new information regarding his own activities, as it related to the topic at hand. This part was the most crucial, and the most dangerous. Careers and lives would be put at stake, and the complete fallout could not be foretold.

Sherlock watched anxiously as the Prime Minister herself read the report with a furrowed brow. "Sir Charles," she exclaimed sharply, when she had finished reading. "Is this accurate?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, looking anywhere but at his superior.

"Lady Smallwood?" the Head of State turned her sharp gaze on the Lady, who was sitting very stiffly in her seat. "Yes, I attest to it's accuracy," she answered firmly, only a hint of a tremble in her voice.

"This is unacceptable!" the Right Honorable Lady fumed. "What dispensation have you had to undertake such liberties?"

"If I may," Sherlock interrupted, instantly turning everyone's disapproving gazes on himself for the rude interruption. "I can answer that. I gave them no choice."

"What, exactly, is your role in all of this?" the PM questioned, with relatively patient forbearance.

"I was the only one who was proven capable of dealing with the threat of Moriarty. I was also the one who shot an unarmed Charles Augustus Magnussen in the head."

The atmosphere in the room changed into an electrified one. Several sharp intakes of breath were heard. Some of the audience already knew the facts, but that didn't compare to having it laid bare so plainly by the culprit himself.

"I forced the honored Lady and Gentleman here into an impossible position. Moriarty was a threat that was equal or more than any foreign threat, and I refused to assist unless they played along with my scheme."

"What about Mr. Mycroft Holmes?" the senior authority in the room questioned, her eyes penetrating the young man's nervous countenance.

"I'm afraid I did the same with him," Sherlock sighed, hanging his head in affected shame. "As all witnesses present will attest, I do not accept work from my brother out of familial sentiment. Neither did I accept the case out of patriotism. It pains me to admit, but I would only accept it for getting something in return, and that something was my freedom."

There was a pause of tense, expectant silence in the room. Sherlock observed Lady Smallwood shifting uncomfortably, and Sir Charles wiping at his forehead in his usual agitated manner. He felt a small pang for them, despite everything. If his predictions were correct, however, only Sherlock himself would suffer any real consequences.

He suppressed a smile at Johnson's expression. The polician looked like someone had just slapped a wet fish against his face, and then taken off with his wallet. He was shocked, furious, and terrified. _As he should be,_ Sherlock thought. Sherlock had now cunningly outmanuevered the snake himself. He had taken the only weapon the politician had hanging over Mycroft's head; the threat to reveal the truth about the Magnussen affair.

"We will indeed get back to this," the PM said briskly. "For now, we will get to the next article of our meeting. We will now go over the reasons for the banishment of Mycroft Holmes, and the effect it has had on the welfare of our country," she paused to glare at Johnson. "We will discuss whether that order should still be enforced, and whether it was justified in the first place."

From that point on, it was no contest for poor Sir Michael. Except for covering up the debacle with Magnussen, Mycroft hadn't done any major misstep that would have justified either his demotion or banishment.

Sherlock's most triumphant moment was when he brought proof of the instigation for Moriarty's involvement in Sherrinford. Mycroft had protested all he could, and sent letters of protest to all authorities above him. Nevertheless, his objections had been overruled, and he had been forced to introduce Jim Moriarty to Eurus Holmes, thus laying the basis for future tragedies.

The authorities had listened to the opposing side, who argued that Eurus was too a valuable tool to give up. The man whose approbation had tipped the scale was none other than a certain Sir Michael Johnson, who no doubt gleefully enjoyed Mycroft's humiliation and despair when he was forced to give in to the request.

"Is this true, Sir Michael?" the Right Honorable Lady asked, her voice so flat that it sent shivers down several spines.

"She is very clever..." the man began defensively, and trailed off at the looks he was being shot, ranging from disapproving to murderous (Sherlock, of course).

"Well, it appears that the Right Honorable Gentleman is not," the PM addressed him, her voice as frigid as the Gentleman's own heart. "By your own admission, you have encouraged an event that you afterwards blamed Mr. Mycroft Holmes for, and removed him from his post on that basis. What does that suggest should be done with you, yourself?

"In addition, according to all evidence presented, there was no justification for the removal of one of the most dedicated and effective civil servants from his position, and his effective expulsion from the country."

Sherlock, Anthea, Lady Smallwood, and Sir Charles, as well as some of the other players present, gleefully helped drive the final nails into Sir Michael's coffin. Some of them did it out of gratitude for Mycroft (like Anthea), guilt for Mycroft's disgrace (Like Lady Smallwood), or the desperate need for the services Mycroft could provide them (Sir Charles and the others). Sherlock could claim all of the reasons listed, but foremost in his mind now was only one motivation; Mycroft didn't deserve this.

The diplomatic incidents with seven different countries were brought up and presented as a casualty of Mycroft's absence. So was the increasing terror threats and economic issues. The coup de grace was the warm letter of approbation from Her Majesty, citing a long history of Mycroft's contribution to England, as well as a recommendation on his character.

No one was sorry to see the slick, disagreeable Johnson being disgraced, except for the man himself, of course. Yet before the audience could rejoice in watching Sir Michael being figuratively hanged, drawn, and quartered, there was still a small matter to be taken care of.

"Mr. Holmes," the Head of State turned to Sherlock soberly. "We will now return to your admission of indiscretion. Before we discuss your fate, however, we are willing to give you one chance at telling your side of the story."

"Yes, ma'am," Sherlock answered, his mouth suddenly feeling very dry. Of all the things he could now think about, or be afraid of, only one thought stood put on his mind. _Oh, blast it._ _Mycroft is going to kill me!_


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:** All I can say about my long absence is this: I have no idea how it happened, and definitely no excuse. I do hope you enjoy!

* * *

The room was ominously silent. Sherlock had finished his monologue, and set his face into a blank mask. He let his eyes flicker a moment to Anthea, who met his gaze with her own. She looked so relieved, hopeful and devastated all at once, that Sherlock had a hard time holding her gaze. He mouthed an "I'm sorry," and smoothed out his expression once more.

"To summarize your statement," the PM broke the silence briskly. "Mr. Magnussen was blackmailing an assassin who had previously worked for our government, and who was both retired and carrying a child."

"Correct," Sherlock answered humbly.

"And the threat would also have put an honorable veteran of our armed forces in extreme danger," she continued, scanning the notes her PA had taken.

"Correct," Sherlock repeated.

"So you undertook to eliminate that threat yourself, without going through the proper channels."

"Yes," Sherlock admitted, head bowing slightly.

"Why didn't you, indeed?"

Sherlock lifted his head defiantly. "Because there was no time. The threat was imminent."

The silence returned to the room once more. Sherlock looked around once more, and then held Lady Smallwood's gaze. "More importantly, the regular channels were compromised. Magnussen had a hold over _everyone."_

The PM tapped a finger on the file before her. "We will still have to look into this. An appropriate investigative team will be set up, with all precautions of discretion, due to the sensitive nature of the matters under discussion. Meanwhile, you are all free to go."

"With all due respect, Madam Prime Minister," came the outraged cry of Sir Michael. "This man has just admitted to being a murderer!"

"Eliminating a known and certain threat outside of jurisdiction can never be considered as such," the Lady responded in clipped tones. "Attempting to eliminate an innocent man, and one of our country's greatest assets, however, surely might. Wouldn't you agree, Sir Michael?"

The politician's flabbergasted expression was one that Sherlock would treasure for ages to come.

* * *

The wheels of justice turned quickly under the urging of the top ranks in the country. Two days after the meeting, Mycroft Holmes was escorted home, by his faithful assistant.

"I'm glad to have you back, Sir," Anthea said, before her voice cracked. She ran a hand over her face, and choked back a sob. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I was...worried."

"I'm sorry that you found your new working conditions less than satisfactory," Mycroft said apologetically.

Anthea stopped dead in her tracks, and turned to scrutinize her boss. She was not surprised to see he was being completely serious. That hurt her much more than any insult he could have given her.

"I don't care if I get hired to sweep the bloody floors," she hissed at him fiercely. "I never want to spend a single more day wondering whether you'll even make it back alive."

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but quickly subsided under her terrifying glare. "I missed you, you wonderful idiot of a man," she whispered.

Slowly, Mycroft put his hand on her upper arm and squeezed gently. "I regret that the loyalty great woman such as yourself is wasted on someone like me," he answered quietly, giving her a small, bitter smile.

She smiled at him sadly. "I don't."

* * *

Mycroft spent the next few days orienting himself to his old surroundings and his new status as a free man. He hadn't yet gone into either his office or the Diogenes club, despite being fully reinstated in both places. Instead, he had gone visits from Anthea, and phone contact with others in his office, and worked on his laptop.

Of Sherlock, there was neither hide nor hair.

On his third day home, Mycroft decided to put his pride aside, and made the call.

"Brother dear," Sherlock breathed, sounding surprised, and... apprehensive?

"Sherlock," Mycroft's voice was flat. "We have matters to discuss."

"Ah, yes, your homecoming party! I'm hanging the streamers now. Don't worry, there will be cake!" Sherlock spoke in that high-pitched, hyper tone of voice that indicated that he was excited- or nervous.

"Now, Sherlock," Mycroft demanded in the Big Brother tone of voice that had ceased working on Sherlock a long, long time ago. Mycroft was discomfitted when it actually seemed to work. Sherlock mumbled some promise to come over, and hung up.

It wouldn't have taken a genius of Mycroft's caliber to deduce that Sherlock was gearing up for a lecture when he finally showed up in person. The sullen tint of his features and avoidance of eye contact were pretty telling.

"I'm not angry at you, Sherlock," were the words that spilled from Mycroft's mouth, in instictive reaction to his brother's rather woebegone demeanor.

"Well, you should be," Sherlock answered, managing to inject both petulance and self-recrimination into his tone.

"No." The single word held all the gravity of law. "I'm disappointed that you put yourself at risk, in order to clear my name. I'm happy that the investigation seems to be going in your favor, but I would never want to see you placed in the mass of the justice system again. However, I can never be angry at you for doing what you did."

The two brothers finally met eye to eye. "Because you would have done the same," Sherlock said, understanding dawning in his eyes.

Mycroft didn't answer.

"Then don't begrudge me," Sherlock continued, the petulance returning full-force.

"Then I suppose we're even now?" Mycroft asked cautiously.

Sherlock shook his head. "Never."

Mycroft waited, his face twisted in confusion.

"Why?"

Sherlock splintered like a delicate china plate thrown forcefully against a stone floor. "All this- all this-" he whispered, clenching his fists, his face crunching up in wrenching grief. "You could have died in exile, all alone, without your body ever being discovered, and all this to protect an idiot who pushed you into this position, and never once- ONCE- thought about the consequences." There were now actual, live tears in his little brother's eyes.

"Sherlock," Mycroft began gently. "It was my decision to arrange your absolution in this way, and therefore-"

"Don't," Sherlock interrupted him. "Just DON'T! Let me take responsibility for one in my ruddy life. You can't keep on protecting me for-ev-," he turned around suddenly at that word, his shoulders shaking.

Mycroft walked over to stand right behind him and placed his hands on the thin, shaking shoulders, turning them gently until they were once again face-to-face. "There's no need for that," he said seriously, with not a trace of condescension in his voice. "I did keep my promise, didn't I? I came back. Now, you can cease your needless display of hysteria."

Sherlock's only answer was choked sobs. Mycroft continued gently chiding him for the inappropriate display, all the while firmly stroking a shuddering back, barely noticing either what he was saying or doing, only concentrating on the familiar feel of the curly-haired head resting on his shoulder.


	17. Epilogue

**A/N:** It's been a while since I last updated anything, hasn't it? I hope to be more productive in the near future. Thank you to everyone who followed this story, especially those who reviewed, for keeping me inspired to finish this!

* * *

 **Epilogue**

It was at another one of those ""Christmas Dinners," that Mycroft had once warned John about, that things came to a head.

Mycroft had spent the last six months after his return working his backside off, trying to restore balance after the messes created in his absence. He was officially reprimanded for his role in the Magnussen cover-up, but didn't suffer further consequences. The "mission" he had been forced to go on was deemed the equivalent of "time served- plus," with the advantage being on Mycroft's side, which made the reinstated government official more confident in making his demands.

Sherlock, the perpetual lucky idiot, wasn't punished too harshly. He was indicted in a closed court session on charges of manslaughter, but given the circumstances and Sherlock's previous record of public service, the judge was pretty lenient. However, his offence of the law in trying to force officials to cover up his crime meant that he couldn't get away with only a slap on the wrist. He was given the choice of taking on some MI6 work, or going to prison for two years.

It didn't take Sherlock very long to make up his mind (.005 of a second, by his estimation). He very nearly changed his mind when he learned of the actual ramifications of the deal. He would be treated in the same manner as any other agent, have to do everything by the book, submit to his handlers' instructions, and actually fill put paperwork. He then learnt the most horrific part: his missions would all be personally overseen and reviewed by none other than Mycroft Holmes, whose word would be law as far as Sherlock's treatment was concerned.

"That's preposterous!" Sherlock had complained to the MI6 Chief, who had briefed him on the rules. "Why does Mycroft even need to be involved in this? Why does he need to control my every move?"

The chief had given Sherlock a stern look, accompanied by the ghost of a smile. "Because he's the only one who can. Our government has learnt its lesson when it comes to Mycroft Holmes' siblings."

Sherlock had squared his shoulders and done his duty, like the soldier John had acknowledged he had in him, like the grownup Mummy had labelled him, and like the devoted brother Mycroft had trusted him to be.

It wasn't all that bad, in the end. The more Sherlock devoted himself to his actual duties, instead of just looking for ways to piss Mycroft off, the more he was successful in gaining his brother's respect and trust. Which had been there before, but was increasing exponentially. It was a delicate dance through old mistrust and hurts, but the Holmes brothers somehow managed a working relationship that was astoundingly close to decent. (Though the jabs about diets, intelligence, and various other matters were still present in most interactions.)

When Sherlock wasn't busy doing his "community service," he was back to solving cases with John Watson. Their relationship would never be what it had been before, but Sherlock didn't necessarily consider that a bad thing, in the end. They had both seen each other at their worst, had hurt each other deeply, and yet their deep bonds of friendship had survived it all. They probably understood each other better than ever. Their joint mission of rescuing Mycroft had given them both the opportunity to work together in a way they hadn't for too long, and had solidified their newly re-established partnership.

The ill-fated Christmas dinner had been Sherlock's idea, and had been done with the best if intentions. Mummy and Dad were still very upset at Mycroft, especially at his disappearance, for which they weren't given a satisfactory explanation. They were still waiting to see Eurus, but Mycroft found himself unable to arrange it before he had set all security matters back in order. Mainly, they were still unable to forgive him for having lied about Eurus for so many years.

Sherlock had proposed having a holiday dinner, where they would all have the opportunity to clear the air. He had proposed hosting the party in 221b, as a sort of neutral ground. Mrs. Hudson had been invited too, considering the location, and her frequently expressed desire to properly meet Sherlock's parents. Mrs. Hudson and Mummy had indeed hit it off right away, making fast friends.

The evening had been going pretty well, when Mycroft arrived, fashionably late, and a sudden chill descended on the gaily bedecked room. Nevertheless, everyone tried to be on their best behavior. Polite greetings were exchanged, and Mummy and Mrs. Hudson did their utmost to chatter on while ignoring the elephant- or rather, the Mycroft- in the room.

Sherlock gave John a significant look. It was time to implement The Plan.

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. The room turned silent, and all eyes were trained on the detective. "Alright. Let's get this over with. Mycroft, say whatever you have to say, and then kindly relieve us of your presence."

"Sherlock..." Mummy demonstrated half-heartedly.

"Why was I invited, again?" Mycroft asked, facetiously creasing his eyebrows in thought.

"I was wondering quite the same," Mrs. Hudson spoke up, shooting Mycroft a poisonous glance.

"Now, Martha," Mummy patted the landlady's hand. "You know how William and I like our family to be together, especially on holidays. We've decided to give our Mycroft another chance. He's still our child, no matter how reprehensible his behavior has been in the past."

John stared at Mummy, and then turned to Sherlock, his eyes questioning. Sherlock gave a tiny nod.

"Would anyone like some more tea? I was just about to make a cup for myself. To go with another slice of your heavenly Christmas cake, Mrs. Hudson," John said, winking at the older woman.

"A cuppa would be lovely," Mrs. Hudson said, just as the elder Holmes couple voiced their requests. Sherlock nodded towards John. "Mycroft can make his own tea, can't he, Mrs. Hudson?"

The landlady burst out in peals of laughter. John went into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "I'm not sure there's enough cake left for you Mycroft, but then again, I'm not sure you need it."

"You can have a piece," Mrs. Holmes told her eldest graciously, "but do hold off on a second one. You know what you look like when you aren't careful."

"Let the boy be, Mildred," William Holmes spoke up softly, almost timidly. "Christmas is only one day a year, after all."

"And I would have _liked_ to spend this one day a year with _all_ of my children," Mildred retorted sharply, glaring at her husband, before turning her glare on her eldest. "We might have been doing that, if _someone_ had cared enough to arrange it."

"Once again, I'm very sorry about that," Mycroft said tiredly. "I tried, but the security procedures weren't yet in place."

"Sometimes I wonder if you even understand the meaning of the word 'try,'" Mildred snapped.

John came back with the tea tray, which contained six cups. "Merry Christmas," he said sardonically, as he placed a cup in front of Mycroft.

Mycroft lifted his eyes to look at John, a thoughtful expression on his face. John squirmed a bit under his penetrating gaze, and finally looked away.

"I can see what you and Sherlock are trying to do, and I appreciate that," Mycroft told John quietly. "However, I'm afraid it's quite pointless."

"I'm not quite sure what you're talking about," John answered, shrugging, and continued handing out the tea.

"John, did you bring sugar? We'll need quite a lot of it to sweeten the sour aftertaste when _he_ finally leaves," Sherlock snarked.

No one reacted to Sherlock's statement, save for John twitching one side of his mouth up. The only sounds in the room were those made by the occupants consuming their victuals.

Mycroft left his tea untouched. After several minutes of silence, he sighed. "As Sherlock has so cleverly suggested, I'll just say my piece and then leave all of you alone. Mummy, Dad," he turned to look at his parents, "I never intended to hurt you. I'm sorry I couldn't do better. I am putting in all my efforts in getting you reunited with your daughter, and I hope that happens soon."

"Soon is many years too late," Mummy said frostily.

"I know, and I'm sorry," Mycroft looked down. "Mrs. Hudson, I'll let you have the rest of your party reptile-free. Sherlock," he looked at his brother, his tone softening, "John," he turned to the doctor, a small smile on his lips, his tone nearly affectionate, "Well played. It isn't your fault that your ploy didn't work. Nevertheless, I appreciate that you tried. Merry Christmas to you all."

Sherlock looked at John, who spread his hands apart in defeat. The older people in the room stared at Mycroft in confusion. No one returned his silence held until the last tap of Mycroft's umbrella had receded.

"Sherlock?" William Holmes turned his bewildered gaze on his younger son. "Would you mind explaining what your brother was on about?"

"Why didn't you ask him, Dad?" Sherlock asked softly.

"He wasn't going to explain, was he?" Mummy sniffed.

"Perhaps if you had given him the chance," Sherlock answered steadily. "Excuse me, I need to go."

Sherlock dashed down the stairs, and managed to catch his brother before the latter was swallowed up by the waiting black car.

"That's it? You're just... leaving?" Sherlock panted out.

Mycroft turned to his little brother, his face impassive. "Yes. This was never going to work."

"But _why_?" Sherlock threw up his hands in exasperation. "Why, Mycroft? They're your parents, too. And Mrs. Hudson puts up with me, and John, and Rosie, and she's always there for us. Why wouldn't they give you a break?" Sherlock's voice cracked at his last few words.

"You did your best, Sherlock. You and John," Mycroft said in a soothing voice. "But your strategy was wrong. You thought you would get at least one of them to defend me when the both of you were trying to take the piss out of me, didn't you? Perhaps you thought you can evoke some maternal protectiveness in Mummy, or even Mrs. Hudson. Or at least get them to inadvertently take my side while scolding you for your appalling behavior."

Sherlock nodded shortly.

"You were sure that at least Dad would stick up for me, out of his inherent sense of fairness, if not out of paternal affection," Mycroft stated.

"So what went wrong?"

"Conditioning, Sherlock. Our parents and Mrs. Hudson don't see me as a child. They are conditioned to see me as an adult on their level, who bears as much responsibility as they do. So they hold me more responsible for my reactions. And I don't invoke the same protective instincts as you, John, and Little Miss Watson do."

Sherlock placed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, as he hadn't bothered to put on his coat before rushing out. "So I'm not truly the grownup?" he asked, smiling ironically.

"I'm afraid not," Mycroft answered, returning the smile.

"It's still not fair," Sherlock protested.

"When was life ever fair?" Mycroft mused. "It doesn't matter all that much, in the end."

"All lives end. All hearts are broken," Sherlock parroted the words from a different Christmas, long ago. "I know that. And I still care. You shouldn't have become the scapegoat for everyone's collective failures."

Mycroft looked at his now shivering brother in concern. "Go back up. You're freezing away here."

"Alright. But would you wait here a moment? I have something to give you."

In a flash, Sherlock was back, wearing his Belstaff. He handed Mycroft a cigarette, and lit up one of his own. " Just the one," he smirked at his older sibling. "Merry Christmas, brother mine."

"And a Happy New Year, little brother," Mycroft replied, smiling.

Later, Sherlock and John would both confront the present occupants of 221b. Sherlock would wonder at how Mummy failed to notice that Mycroft had lost so much weight that he was skinnier than he had ever been in his life. Sherlock would wonder at how Dad, who always taught his children to stand up for the underdog, had failed to do so in regards to his own son. Sherlock would tell Mrs. Hudson that he loved her, but he could no longer put up with her treatment of his brother. He would strongly advise them that, if they weren't able to change their feelings, they should at least keep their distance, and stop relying on Mycroft to be their problem solver. John would back up everything Sherlock said, compassionately but firmly.

For now, Sherlock only smoked his cigarette in the company of his older brother, constant protector, and first friend. As long as Mycroft was back at his side, Sherlock was sure that balance would eventually be restored to the universe.


End file.
